You baked cookies, the warm, sweet aroma swirling around the cozy kitchen as you swayed to the cheerful strains of a Doris Day song, the radio crackling softly in the background. Flour-dusted your hands and cheeks, as you twirled alone, utterly lost in your own little world.

Suddenly, a sound intruded, a tentative knock at the door. You paused mid-spin, lowering the radio's volume, straining to catch any hint of movement beyond the familiar hum of your kitchen. Silence enveloped you. Just as you were about to reclaim the rhythm of your dance, the knock came again, this time a heavy thud that echoed through the house, more insistent and urgent.

"Who could it be?" You wondered. With a slight frown, you wiped your hands on a flour-dusted apron and walked toward the door.

As you opened the door, the late afternoon light spilled out onto the porch, illuminating a soldier standing before you. His clothes were tattered and grimy, a stark contrast to the brightness of your clothes. He held a worn sergeant's cap in his hands, his eyes downcast, burdened by fatigue.

"I’m sorry for…" He began, his voice a gravelly whisper, as if the very act of speaking was an effort. He hesitated, searching for words that seemed tangled in his throat. "... For appearing like this in your… home."